


Knock On All Doors And Enter Nowhere

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-27
Updated: 2006-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter understands, Edmund learns, Lucy has faith and Susan doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock On All Doors And Enter Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vivien

 

 

"Professor Kirk," Lucy pipes up one afternoon when she runs into him accidentally (on purpose) on the stairway outside his study. "Why did you have a wardrobe full of fur coats?"

"Ah, Lucy, that is a smart question. And one I believe you know the answer to, if you think hard enough."

Lucy screws her face up in concentration.

"You don't have lots of visitors, do you?" she says. "Besides us - and the tour parties who aren't proper visitors - of course."

"No, I don't," the professor replies, as Lucy takes his hand and they walk down the hallway together, Lucy not quite running to keep up with his longer stride.

"Then I think-I think you must have known someone would need them one day."

The professor smiles down at her, a creaky smile that speaks of lack of practice, but is genuine nonetheless.

"One can rarely _know_ anything for certain, young Lucy, but it is unlikely to have been a coincidence that they were there when you needed them."

"I'm sorry we lost them though."

"They had served their purpose by then, and that is all we can ask of any material possession. Now, why don't you forget about them, and go and ask Margaret to bring us a pot of tea and some cakes?"

"Thank you, Professor." And Lucy skips off, thoughts of lost coats soon gone from her mind.

*

They talk about it afterwards, huddled together in the girls' room so they can hear each other's whispers. They all have different memories of the moment they fell back through the wardrobe, out of Narnian life and back into these (almost) familiar bodies.

Peter says he felt cool air on his face: it must have been his beard disappearing. Occasionally Susan catches him rubbing his chin, as though he's not sure if he has a beard now or not. No one teases him about it.

Edmund says it was like losing something inside, and when pushed, just shrugs and says he can't put it any better than that. And he doesn't need to, because Susan understands.

Lucy won't talk about it at all, not without crying. Susan thinks it must be hardest for her: she's gone through the wardrobe three times now, more than any of them, and each of the previous times she'd had the hope of going straight back. But Susan's seen her coming out of the wardrobe room, and she knows Lucy's been trying to get back again, even though the Professor said it wouldn't work like that again.

Susan doesn't say much about that moment, midday between worlds, either. But she can still feel what it was like, returning to a child's body. Even though she can't quite remember the exact moment when her breasts became merely half-formed and her hips straight, all the same, it's too awkward for her to speak of, to the boys at least.

*

It isn't that Peter forgets exactly. The memories of Narnia are all still there, layered between memories of England, like the chocolate and vanilla layers in the marble cake mother used to make before the war and rationing. When Peter was very little, he used to like to peel the cake apart so that he could eat all the vanilla parts first, and save the chocolate until last.

So he remembers playing cricket and climbing trees and bathing last week, and playing Hide and Seek when the weather turned bad. Yet, at the same time, he has clear memories of entertaining a large delegation from Archenland, who arrived riding elephants and spoke with a strange accent and unfamiliar words.

He remembers leaving London and mother, heading south on a crowded train, arriving at a house in the middle of nowhere and meeting the Professor (Lucy had been scared by him at first, and Peter had had to keep kicking Edmund to stop him laughing at the Professor's wild mop of hair). He also recalls pouring over designs for a grand new ship to head their growing fleet, and journeying to the Rush River to deal with complaints from some dwarves that the fauns and naiads were making too merry. The dwarves were never much good at having fun. He pictures Susan rejecting yet another smitten suitor and laughing with the others afterwards about his flowery speech ( _"He said I have eyes like a summer rain shower and hair like gossamer." "What is gossamer, anyway?" "Well, it's nothing like Susan's hair."_ ).

He can list the wars they all fought in, cleaning up Narnia and making it safe again. The Battle of Stormness Gap, the Battle of Ettinsmoor when they finally drove the wild giants across the border, the Battle of Great River where Edmund was fatally wounded and Lucy healed him once more. Yet he knows he hid under the table in the front room, helpless, as the air raid sirens howled across London.

Occasionally, even when she was busy on bake day, mother would get distracted, staring out of the kitchen window at the sky as though she could see something other than blue sky and clouds. She'd mix the marble cake batter too much, and Peter has the shameful memory of crying once because he couldn't separate the layers and had to eat the chocolate and vanilla all mixed up together.

Sometimes he can only separate the Narnia memories from the England memories by logic. If there were bears, and they weren't in a zoo, then it must be a Narnia memory. If there were bombs and planes, it must be an England memory.

Simple deduction.

There are some memories and memory fragments that he can't place so easily though - late night conversations, the feel of wind in his hair - they could have been anywhere, anytime.

It would help if some memories felt more real than others, or if some were like dreams, or things that might have happened to someone else. But memories don't layer in that way - they're all just there, together. And sometimes it can be awkward, because Lucy might start to say 'remember when', and Susan and Peter will have to look and see if Mrs Macready or Ivy (who's most likely to clean their rooms) or Betty (who's the quietest of all the servants, and the one they're most likely to not notice) is around.

It isn't that he forgets either past, here or there, but he's not King Peter now. None of them are who they were in Narnia anymore. He's not grown-up, and even if it feels odd at times to be fourteen years old and remember ruling a land and fighting battles and falling head over heels in love with an oread, Peter is still a child and he knows that.

His mind knows that.

It's just that his heart forgets sometimes.

*

Edmund's eyelashes feel heavy, snowflakes piling up on them as though winter has decided it's time for him to close his eyes and sleep. He shakes his head, chilly strands of the long scarf Susan knitted him for Christmas slapping against his coat and adding more snow to that already falling.

He doesn't like the snow. Never has, at least not since-

He tramps morosely after Lucy, regretting the loss of his cosy spot right in front of the fire ( _"She shouldn't go out alone Edmund, and Susan and I are busy."_ ).

"Aren't you getting cold yet?" he asks, hopefully.

"Don't be silly, it's not that cold." She tramps on across through the wood, the lawn almost out of sight now, then suddenly plumps herself down in the snow, tilts her head back and starts catching snowflakes on her tongue.

"Taste it," she calls back to Edmund, "you've got to taste it."

"Now who's being silly?" he replies. "Snow doesn't taste of anything."

"It does too." Lucy's mouth turns down. Edmund knows she was a grown-up woman once, not so long ago, and then she would have laughed off such a minor disagreement, but she's only eight years old in England, and she still acts like an eight year old. He understands. He's got the memories, like she has, but he doesn't feel like an adult anymore.

"Okay Lu, I'll try it. _See_ ," Edmund says as he pokes his tongue out as far as it will go, "tasting it now."

Lucy is easily mollified. She bounces around in the snow, making big holes with her borrowed Wellington boots that are two sizes too big. She's already grown out of the boots she brought from home.

"It tastes different from Narnia snow," she says in a stage whisper, though she knows full well that the trees aren't listening to them, can't listen to them.

Edmund bites down on another 'don't be silly' and tastes some more snow. And Lucy's right: it does taste different, though he'd be hard pressed to explain how.

"You're right," he says, and he's glad he does because Lucy's face lights up at the simple acknowledgement. She's always been as easy to please as she has been to hurt. And one thing Edmund has learned is that hurting her doesn't make him feel any better than making her happy. And while he doesn't _always_ remember that, he does so often enough that Peter noticed and slapped him on the back and told him he was a good sort. Surprisingly, Edmund didn't mind, and he didn't tell Peter to stop pretending he was their father.

Some things will never be the same again, but that's all right.

*

They haven't played Hide and Seek since they returned. It hasn't been a conscious decision-nobody has said anything, they just haven't played. There are usually plenty of other things to do, after all, but it's been a long winter, and even though the snow has melted it's cold and wet and miserable outside. They've all become fidgety from playing quiet games, so Edmund is counting to a hundred in the corner of their living room, and Peter has just clambered up into the attic, looking for a good corner to hide in.

There's a lot of junk up here, the usual sort of dusty boxes which look exciting but probably aren't, and a few broken things that no doubt someone intended to mend one day but never got around to. But behind a particularly ugly bed frame is something that looks a lot more promising: an old rag rug - still brightly coloured, and looking out of place among all the shabbiness - is draped over something, and Peter thinks there might be room for him to squeeze underneath the rug and hide. So he lifts it up, and then-

Then he stops.

It's a painting. But it's not ordinary painting, no English country scene. There's a mountain range, and Peter recognises it. And in the foreground, resting on a rocky outcrop, is an oread.

Edmund finds him there, sitting cross-legged and wet-eyed, staring at the painting. It isn't her of course, not his love, but the likeness is close enough, and the loss is sharp.

*

Susan's always been the pragmatic one. Someone has to be, after all.

It's really not sensible to keep trying to hold onto memories of adulthood when it's all been taken away. So she doesn't. Doesn't try, that is, but that doesn't mean the memories disappear. Even a year later, the memories are still clear.

She tries not to be resentful, or to get angry at thinking of all they lost when they were thrown back here without warning. Most of the time she succeeds in putting it out of her mind. They've been able to explore further afield over the summer, setting off early in the morning and getting back just before dark. One of the local farmers has a son Peter's age, so they've helped with the harvests. Huge sweet purple-golden Victoria plums first, and then the apples, crisp Cox's Orange Pippins and Russets, as good as anything they've ever eaten. Some evenings they stay and eat dinner at a big trestle table in the orchard with all the land girls. It's been new, and interesting, and Susan likes the life here, the freedom they never had in London. The days have passed quickly, no time for brooding, and they've been tired by the evening, so sleep has come easily.

But the others won't let go so easily, not even Peter, and Susan had always thought he was more sensible than this. Lucy's the worst: she won't stop talking about Aslan, so Susan has taken to going to bed later and later (Mrs McCready doesn't notice, thankfully) to avoid having to listen to Lucy.

It doesn't work. Lucy's usually asleep when Susan gets into bed, but she wakes up most nights, crying, and Susan isn't heartless. So she ends up curled beside Lucy in Lucy's bed, while she sobs about how much she misses Aslan and Mr Tumnus and all their old friends.

Just one time, Susan starts to say that she thinks Aslan was cruel, giving them the life in Narnia and then taking it all away again. Because it's much easier when you've never had something that good, that wonderful, and don't know what you're missing. But having it and losing it, that's unbearable.

Lucy is horrified.

"How can you say that about Aslan? He's _perfect_ ," she cries out, and then she gets up and runs out of the room, bare feet slapping on the wooden floor.

Susan finds her in the wardrobe room, of course, sitting against the wall, shivering in her flannelette nightdress and sobbing still.

"I'm sorry, Lu," she says. "I didn't mean it." It's only a white lie.

And it's all right. Lucy forgives her, because Lucy doesn't understand that having knowledge isn't the same as having faith.

 


End file.
